


The Plural of Kindness

by phoenix_in_winter



Category: Hawkeye (Comics)
Genre: Cold, Fever, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Sneezing, etc. - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-05 22:20:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13397463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenix_in_winter/pseuds/phoenix_in_winter
Summary: “C’mon, Barton, you’re not dead yet.”In which Clint isn't as alone as he sometimes feels.(Cross-posted.)





	The Plural of Kindness

___________________________________________

**Now**

“Awww, Clint.”

 _Katie._ She sounds— disappointed, like it’s his own damn fault that he’s drowning under all these blankets—

“What’re you doing, you’re gonna suffocate under all those blankets, c’mon—”

There’s a rush of cold air and he’s gasping and shivering, pulling in on himself with a pathetic whine;

Kate’s palm on his forehead and Lucky’s nose on his neck,

_cold cold cold cold cold—_

Kate’s laugh, surprisingly gentle:

“C’mon, Barton, you’re not dead yet.”

___________________________________________

**2 Days Ago**

“C’mon, Barton, you’re not dead yet.”

Because yeah, talking to yourself out loud was a perfectly normal superhero thing to do. Right? Well, if anyone asked, he had a whole team listening in via invisible earpiece.

What? It was plausible. They did it all the time.

Not today, though, because he’s not hanging upside down from a fire escape in the snow on Official Avengers Business. Just trying to make a dent in Ivan’s neverending reserves of limited-vocabulary, tracksuit-wearing goons.

Who had shown up while Kate was… wherever she went when she wasn’t at Clint’s place. Huh. He should probably pay more attention, there.

There’s a _woosh_ of a bullet flying past his face, and another, and yeah, okay, this looks bad.

A third bullet clangs off the fire escape and he curses under his breath, fumbling with his bow, his hands freezing and uncoordinated. Who decided that it was a good plan to fight _guns_ with weapons from the futzin’ _Paleolithic?_

Oh.

Right.

Okay, fine, yes, his own damn fault. Got it.

Two more of Ivan’s men go down, and they’re instantly replaced by six more. This isn’t how it ends, he knows that (believes that; has to believe that), but he still can’t see a way out.

 _Make everything something to hit with._ His brother’s words, sneaking back in— _And hit them until they stop._

So he does, and it’s all he can do to keep them at bay, can’t even get a break to flip right-side up, until something lands on the fire escape next to him with enough force to jolt his whole body into an involuntary groan. There’s a moment of confusion, and dread, and certainty that _this is it, this is really it,_ but then three arrows come whizzing down at once and three more men fall, boom-boom-boom, so really that only leaves—

“Kate.” He manages to crunch up and twist around to sitting in a relatively smooth motion, but his whole body aches when he raises his arms for the draw.

“The one and only.” He doesn’t have to look to hear the grin in her voice. Two more down, and then another group of three. God, she’s good. He’s not ready to admit it, but he’s going to be overtaken as the premier Hawkeye before she’s his age. Well. The age he is now. He’ll be older then. But she’ll be better. He plays that all back in his head, and decides it sounds right. He looses the arrow, and it hits its mark.

With Kate at his side, the tide turns fast, or maybe he loses some time (also possible; he’s disoriented, weighted down, like he’s trying to fight underwater). It’s her triumphant whoop that tells him he can stop shooting, turn off the autopilot and come back into real time. She’s grinning, still; beaming like she doesn’t care that it’s below freezing and neither of them is wearing a real coat; like they weren’t just being shot at by several dozen men with pretty bad aim but pretty firm intentions to kill.

Clint hauls himself to his feet, slow-motion and heavy and stiff, and comes eye-to-eye with Kate, who’s pulling a face. “What?”

“Dude.” She gestures vaguely at her nose in disgust. “You’ve got a… snot situation going on.”

“Oh.” He’s too tired to be embarrassed (and besides, it’s _Kate_ ); just presses a wrist to his nose and sticks the other hand his pocket to root around for hypothetical tissues he’s 100% sure are definitely not there. “Umb.” His sleeve is definitely not cutting it. Okay, maybe a tiny bit embarrassed now.

Kate sighs and pats down her own pockets, coming up empty as well, then surveys the block. “I mean, it’s not _that_ far back to your place.”

A moment of desperate internal fight, face twisting, and then— _“Eh. Hmpt-CHHuh!”_ He looks up guiltily from his elbow, not daring to move his arm.

Kate groans dramatically, toying with the purple handkerchief, folded into a headband, that’s holding her hair back out of her face. “Come _on,_ man, don’t make me do it…”

 _“Heh… NGXXT!”_ His other hand’s in on the action now, hovering in front of his elbow in an attempt to shield the, uh, _situation_ in the crook of his arm. Definitely burning red now. Up to the tips of his ears.

“You.” A sweep of purple coming down from her head. “Owe.” A finger in between his eyes, handkerchief dangling tantalizingly close. “Me.” Cloth dropped onto his shielding hand, sweet relief. “Big time, pal. Like, twenty purple handkerchiefs. _New_.”

He makes a face at the spots on his jacket that are definitely not coming off, and blows his nose way more loudly and disgustingly than he meant to. Kate sighs, again (it’s becoming a thing), and picks up his bow and nearly-empty quiver. “They already hauled off all the casualties; we’re not getting any of those arrows back.” She pokes him in the back, but not very hard. “C’mon. Let’s go home.” 

 

___________________________________________

**1.5 Days Ago**

“Up.” Kate’s poking him again. He’s slow to wake, still cold under more blankets than he even knew he owned. His arm is asleep where it was squished between his side and the lumpy couch, but shaking it out seems like way too much work. There’s a mostly-full cup of coffee, no signs of steam and probably completely cold, on the coffee table. That’s weird. He’s never met a cup of coffee he couldn’t finish.

Lucky’s getting in on the action, too, nuzzling his still-tingling hand with a look of one-eyed doggy concern. “’M up, ’m up.” Eyes closed, falling back down into sleep.

“Yeah, no, _actually_ up. My conscience won’t let me leave until you’re actually in bed, and there’s a couple more steps between here and there.” She’s standing there expectantly, but doesn’t offer a hand. Good. He wouldn’t’ve taken it anyway. So there.

A lot of effort and one coughing fit later, he’s on his feet, unsteady. Kate nudges his shoulders in the direction of his bedroom, and he almost trips over Lucky, who’s circling his feet. Lucky whines. If Kate hadn’t been there, Clint would’ve, too.

He stumbles in the direction of the bedroom, but gets poked in the left shoulder so that he turns right, toward the bathroom, which is weirdly steamy and loud.

Oh.

“In.”

“I—” He looks longingly in the direction of his bedroom.

“Shower first. And no, I’m not helping you undress.” Amused, like there was any chance he was going to ask. Pfft.

She shuts the door behind him and he drops onto the closed toilet lid. Okay. Socks… off. Shirt… off. Pants… god, this is too much work.

“C’mon, Barton, I got places to be.” Called through the door, over the sound of the rushing water. He’s in a rainforest. Right? Wait, no.

He finally disentangles himself from all items of clothing and steps into the hot shower spray. It’s exhausting, and relief, and he’s finally, finally warm. He halfheartedly scrubs himself clean with something soap-like (body wash, maybe, or possibly shampoo), swiping at his nose every once in a while but mostly just letting it run. He’s standing there, soapy, one hand braced against the wall, when he’s taken by surprise by a harsh _huh-KSSSHT._ He blinks in surprise, then doubles over for another: _eh-KSHT! hng-CHUU! eh…_ He shakes his head, trying to get the soap out of his eyes. _heh…_ c’mon, c’mon… _hhhh_. Lost it. He resigns himself to actually rinsing the soap out of his hair, and has just declared himself done when an inhale of steam brings the tickle roaring back. _KGTCH… heh-KTCHOO!_ Phew. Ugh. Okay.

He’s panting slightly when he opens the door, from the sneezing and the effort of being upright and just pure exhaustion, deeper than even an upside-down-gun-slash-arrow-fight could justify. Kate’s looking impressed. “Bless.”

He mutters something in response, cheeks flaring again, and shuffles toward his room, Kate following at his heels.

“Okay:” —she points to his bedside table— “Every box of tissues you own; water; painkillers; crackers. No cold meds, because that’s apparently _not_ something you own. Anything else?” She’s got her jacket on, and her hat and her scarf and her gloves.

“You’re—” he sits down on the bed and takes a second to process, putting it all together. “You’re going?” He wishes it didn’t sound so pathetic.

She twitches a half-smile. “Things to do, people to see. You gonna be okay here?”

“Sure.” Slumping sideways; burrowing under the covers, towel and all. “’M Hawkeye, ’m always fine.” Slurred, exhausted, trailing off. Then, coming back with a start: “Wait, who are you going to see at 2 a.m.?”

Her laugh follows her out the door.

___________________________________________

**1 Day Ago**

He wakes to late-morning sunlight, and to Lucky pacing back and forth between his bed and the apartment door, leash in his mouth, insistent, not quite barking, but making it very clear that _we need to go outside right. now._ Right. “Okay, Pizza Dog.” Hoarse, mumbled, but enough to grab Lucky’s attention. Doggy claws start doing double time on the floor. “’M up.”

Getting vertical shifts something in his head, and it’s four harsh sneezes and another coughing fit, all muffled into last night’s towel, and half a dozen tissues before he can actually make his way toward the pile of not-clean-but-not-super-dirty laundry on the floor. Pajama pants, sweatshirt, and then, closer to the apartment door, boots and his warmest, poofiest coat, and, as an afterthought, a hat. He takes the leash from Lucky’s mouth and manages to get it hooked, glad that the bag-of-bags for doggy poop disposal is already attached. His eyes are barely open as they trudge from hallway to elevator to lobby to snow and back inside. He forgot gloves. Wishes he hadn’t. His hands are cold. Really, really cold. Up again, and back onto his own floor. Thank god for elevators. There’s no way he could get up all those stairs right now.

“Clint?” Concerned. With good reason. He knows he looks bad.

“Hey, Simone.” He tries to smile, and doesn’t quite succeed.

“You sick, baby?”

No point lying. “Yeah.”

There’s a hand on his forehead and a disapproving hum. Lucky presses himself up against Simone, asking for the attention that Clint’s so rudely failing to give him.

“Lucky!” Simone’s youngest appears at their apartment door, and Lucky strains at the leash to go to him. “Mama, we can play wi’ him?”

Simone looks Clint up and down. “Tell you what. If it’s okay with Clint, maybe we could dog-sit Lucky for the day? Take him outside, let him run around in the snow with us?” Lucky tugs harder at the words _outside_ and _run_ , barely able to contain his excitement.

“And then,” Simone turns back to Clint, a hand on his arm, steadying, “you can stay in bed where you belong. Okay?” The tone of her voice says the decision’s already made. It’s such a kind gesture that Clint feels tears pricking behind his eyes.

He swallows hard, and grimaces at how swollen his throat has become. “Okay.” He hands over the leash, then opens his own door to get Lucky’s food and water bowls and a couple of toys. “Really, Simone, thank you, I mean…”

“It’s fine, Clint. After all you’ve done for us? _All_ of us?” She gestures at the building at large— _his_ building— and there’s a greater-than-even chance that he really is going to cry.

“Okay,” he whispers again, letting Simone and her two boys sweep in and then back out, Lucky at their heels. Simone pauses at the door, dog food in hand. “You need anything else? Medicine? Food?”

He shakes his head because it’s already too much, they’re already too kind, and Simone squeezes his arm on her way out the door, and then he’s truly alone.

___________________________________________

**0.5 Days Ago**

It’s afternoon, and he’s shivering, way down deep in a way he knows means _fever_ ; in a way he knows means _get up and drink some water_ , or _call someone_ , or—

He doesn’t do any of that, just sneezes into the covers, and shivers, and closes his eyes.

  
___________________________________________

**Now**

“Awww, Clint.”

 _Katie_ , disappointed; Katie, stealing his warmth; Katie, who came back, who didn’t leave him alone.

“C’mon, Barton, you’re not dead yet.”

Lucky’s jumping around, and Clint’s not 100% sure how he got from Simone’s possession into Kate’s, but he’s grateful to both of them, all of them, and there’s a warm bundle of muscle and fur and nose and tongue in his arms that is definitely not supposed to be on the bed but he’s not exactly going to object right now.

“Didn’ hafta steal my covers.” He sounds petulant and he knows it, but he can’t muster up anything else.

“Mmm.” Non-committal. The rustle of a plastic bag. “I’m going to guess you haven’t managed to acquire any medicine yet?”

She correctly takes his silence for a no.

“Alright, well, here.” She dumps out the bag onto the nightstand. Cold medicine, cough drops, Vick’s. Which he actually has, buried in a drawer somewhere, but explaining that is too much work, so he just looks at her.

“Does that pathetic expression mean, ‘Thank you, Kate;’ ‘You’re the best, Kate;’ ‘I couldn’t live without you, Kate’?” She’s got her eyebrows up, expectant, and he nods.

“Thank you.” It’s quiet, and cracked, and it’s more than just his raw throat, and she softens. It’s sweet, but short-lived, because he’s immediately overtaken by two more sneezes _—ktCHH, heh-TCHH—_ that, in the absence of blankets, he catches in his cupped hands, and—

“Umb.”

Kate clutches today’s handkerchief-headband —purple, again, but with a flower pattern this time— to her head. “Uh-uh. No way.”

“Ndo, could you just—” he snuffles ineffectually, and Kate makes a face. “Tissues?”

She grabs the box from where it’s fallen to the floor, and he’s overwhelmed, again, with Lucky licking his ear, and a kids’ movie coming through the wall from Simone and her boys, and Kate here, with him, in spite of everything.

“Tissues, yes.” She’s got her nose wrinkled up in disgust, but she’s grinning anyway, already on to the next adventure, itching to get out there and shoot but willing to stay here and watch terrible movies with him and only complain a little bit. “That, I can do.”

  
_Fin._

 


End file.
